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Oh, there goes Mr. Humbug, There goes Mr. Grim
WHO: Herian & Sabine, eventually other threads
WHAT: Herian’s emotional regression, poor coping with depression, and being rightfully roasted by Sabine. and then other stuff, catch all etc etc.
WHEN: maybe a smidge backdated
WHERE: Gallows
NOTES: ptsd and depression, man .
WHAT: Herian’s emotional regression, poor coping with depression, and being rightfully roasted by Sabine. and then other stuff, catch all etc etc.
WHEN: maybe a smidge backdated
WHERE: Gallows
NOTES: ptsd and depression, man .
eventually this will be links to different starters and / some open prompts ok
SABINE.
Well might it be justified, after seeing her home that was already so difficult a place for her to return to so viciously attacked and damaged. Perhaps her generally unpleasant, withdrawn manner could be forgiven on the basis of her efforts worsening her injuries, although she was cautioned against over-exerting herself by multiple parties, and warned that it might make her ability to recover all the more challenging.
The retreat into isolation and avoiding others unless they descended upon her or dragged her out of her quarters was, probably, more a punishment for herself than others, if only she were not so determinedly silent and moody in the rare instances she did appear. As it was, Sabine had been stubbornly dragging her out, and Herian sits with her cane at the archery range, brow furrowed as Sabine’s arrow flies and bites into the target. )
I have seen you make better shots in the dark.
( Are you even trying, the tone says, and this is what Sabine had been dealing with— for longer than anyone should have to, frankly. )
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which is not given in good faith, or friendly teasing, the sort Sabine gives and takes with ease. It's impatient, as though this performance were a waste of time, which is only slight improvement on the black silence that otherwise dominates their conversations, if they can be called that. She takes a breath, feeling the way her own body goes through the tiny adjustments of once again allowing this too to pass, and then aims.
And then swivels, and shoots.
The arrow sings past Herian's head, clattering uselessly against stone a ways behind her, but maybe it took with it one long dark hair too. ]
You did not see shit in the dark, shem.
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No magic comes, no. True, her staff is not at her side, but there is not even something instinctual. There is only the whistling of the arrow past her face, and that is eclipsed by what Sabine says. The word is one she has been so often resigned to, but Sabine had only ever turned it on her in playful teasing. This is entirely different. )
Do not,
( and the words are cold in their fury, as Herian forces herself to stand, slow and painful as it is. Sheer pride might be all that keeps her leg from buckling, or maybe it is spite. )
presume to call me that. Are you some child, reduced to name-calling?
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[ and Sabine responds as she always does at the appearance of some larger predatory presence, which is to bare her teeth and bristle her hackles right back. A slender figure in her trim leathers, her bracers, and for once, her pointed ears visible beneath where her hair is partially braided.
She discards her bow on the ground, stepping closer, pointing, ]
I am naming what I see. A shem who can't see in the fucking dark, or past their own misery to see how miserable they make all others around them.
cw ref to potential sexual assault way back when and also disfiguring injury
( Riftwatch, this place in the Gallows, whoever and whatever Sabine works with, now. )
I know what my being human means. I know that it means my grandmother suffered, don’t imagine that there is a soul living more disgusted by my humanity than I.
( She grasps her hair and pulls it back, exposing where that Dalish clan that attacked the diplomatic party had carved her ear to a point, years ago, now. )
Be more imaginative than “shem,” if you wish to damn me. If you claim to say what I am, then say I am an attack on my own heritage, traitor to my own blood. Do not stop at “shem” as though I were no more than some chevalier passing in the street.
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Her focus stays on the other woman's eyes, refuse to flick to the mutilation of her ear. ]
I'm not some Dalish cunt, Herian, [ half-hissed. ] I am your friend, but you are making it fucking impossible.
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A desperate, childish part of her wants to fling things in Sabine's face. You left, as thought that were a matter solely of choice, as if the very world did not demand that they all obey orders, commit to tasks that may not be their dearest wish. As though Sabine would not have preferred to be closer to the Warden, so dear of her heart.
Her rage is still blistering, and shame does nothing to ease it, as she turns and slams her fist hard into the heavy wooden post she had been leaning against. A childish display, far removed from her typical manner. But then, was not much of this so removed? )
Then do not burden yourself. Miserable, shemlen and impossible is surely too great a test even for you.
( Herian turns to go, and realises that when she first stood, her cane toppled over. So, now it's the decision to try and go sulk and brood and live in self-imposed isolation without it, or lose the ability to dramatically walk away because she needs to struggle to pick it up, and she's aware of blood running down her knuckles, leaving her palm and fingers slick. Quietly, )
Magairlean.
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Or—no, the blood smeared on her knuckles, this flagellation. Maybe it'd be better if that fist had flown for Sabine, instead. ]
What's wrong with your magic?
[ Herian clearly wishes to go. While she's trapped from doing so, Sabine flings this question forwards. ]
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( She flings the words back, fury blinding her to the reality of what she's admitted. What she hasn't said, so far.
Realisation sinks in as she's grasping onto the post and struggling to ease down and reach for the cane, as her muscles protest the fact that she's trying to make her knee bend so far and keep holding her weight. )
All has been stripped from me. Even that which has been so inherent—
( Her mouth twists unhappily, and she shuts herself up, looking to Sabine like some kind of wounded animal. Maybe it's appropriate that that's when her leg buckles, unable to do what she needs it to, so she stumbles to her knees. )
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—realises that's fucking stupid, and then does move, a sharp exhale that's less of a sigh and more like a wordless curse, a murmur. She will crouch down, reach to collect the walking stick, reach for Herian's shoulder to steady her. ]
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The warmth of contact is as much of a relief as it is horrifying. )
I have neither my strength nor my magic. ( Barely audible, and hoarse. ) I am nothing, Sabine.
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But her hand is still on Herian's shoulder, and remains. ]
That's horse shit, [ she says, but quieter. ] And even if it is true, all your strength is gone because you burned it out of yourself. Rest and it will come back. Conasse.
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( This is inaccurate. Certainly it could be considered rest compared to what she would do prior to the injuries she had when she returned to Kirkwall, but actual rest?
She reaches for the cane, and her knuckles are still oozing blood as she takes it. No move to stand, yet. It’s difficult and she’s tired. )
I was a Knight-Enchanter. Now I cannot wield my sword, and neither my limb nor my magic obey me. My magic is what killed my father and tore me from my mother, and now I cannot do the most rudimentary of spells.
( Her mouth threatens to waver, but she will not let it, or at the very least she will not let Sabine see it. )
COSIMA (post-Sabine)
Perhaps it was not that weakness that was shameful, in the eyes of some. She suspected Cosima would hold more objection to her response - the withdrawing and hiding away, where there had been gradual restoration of contact between them, sharing of closeness and comfort. She had told Cosima she would stop leaving and stay by her side if she wished it, and then even when she was back in Kirkwall she had disappeared.
And if she’d heard of Herian’s ruder, more sour manner— she suspected that would not be well-regarded.
So here she stands, in the gardens where they spoke before she went to Starkhaven. She has not a staff, but a cane she is using to stand, and her left arm is partly hidden with a shawl, but even so— it may be evident that around the shoulder and upper arm there is less mass than on the other side.
At the sound of familiar steps, she doesn’t turn to look to Cosima. Instead she keeps her head bowed and inhales the sent off the flowers.)
Cosima.
( Not enthusiast salutations, but there’s warmth in it. )
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It feels unfair, she can privately admit to herself, that she'd been so relieved when Herian turned up. Not only because she'd missed her — she had — but because it meant she felt for a brief moment less alone in returning to a Gallows empty of every person she'd been close to during her first time in Thedas. But Herian'd been down her own road in the years they were apart, and it had clearly been a hard one. It makes Cosima's heart ache. Even so, she can't take on the burden of the one person here that she cares about, that she loves, lashing out in angry frustration at her.
She was relieved beyond words when Herian came back from Starkhaven at all, given the news that had arrived before she did. But any hopes she'd had that they might talk properly have faded. She's been disinclined to push it. Herian knows where she is.
Demonstrably.
Still, she's not outwardly defensive when she arrives in the garden. If anything, she looks a little bit tired.]
Hey. I wondered when I was going to hear from you.
[It's not a reproach, but it is an invitation to say why it took this long, if Herian wants to take it.]
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( Or rather, she anticipated. Correcting and clarifying takes an energy she doesn’t really have.
She turns to look at Cosima, not facing her quite head on, mindful that if anyone might be able to notice the loss of muscle in her left shoulder and arm it would be Cosima. The shawl might obscure it, but even so. As it was, she had managed to regain some of her muscle and strength before Starkhaven, but now she is thinner, the usual pallor of her skin has become unhealthy, so overall she’s teetering perilously on gaunt.
Theres a couple of moments where she tries to decide which of the unsatisfactory things to say she should lead with. )
My conduct has been— ( She shakes her head, because some words seem too dramatic and woe-is-me, and others insufficient. ) I’m sorry. I was determined that after Starkhaven I would not do more things demanding apology.
( But here she is, gaze dropped and shaking her head, because that had gone less than well. )
How are you?
( There is a longing to how she looks to Cosima, pain woven into it, and the relief of seeing her well. )
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It is strange and unsettling, Cosima looking physically healthy and Herian so patently unwell. Cosima's not ungrateful that the cure she had at home has carried over into Thedas, but her narrow escape is never far from her thoughts. (Her sisters who ran out of time before the cure got to them.) She's not in any shape to carry Herian to the infirmary, literally or figuratively.]
I'm OK. Keeping busy.
[She exhales, and says:]
Look, I'm not ... of course your home is important to you, I don't blame you for wanting to go. But what the hell has been up with you since you've been back? You're not going to scare me by being honest.
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She would like to move closer to her, and yet, the anticipation that Cosima might wish to maintain that distance and be discomforted by Herian stepping close after being so unreliable lingers in her mind. There are bridges needing to be rebuilt, damaged by her own varying extremes. )
I—
( Words. Even when she has dragged out and evaded speaking so she can try to find the right words, it seems it was a delusion she told herself, because those “right words” are nowhere to be found. She almost asks Cosima if she’d like to sit, but again, avoidance, distraction. )
Injury, in part. Pride and shame, that I ran into the fray so readily, disregarded advice given me by yourself and physicians, and emerged all the weaker for it. I— I call Starkhaven my home, but surely that’s some folly, when most of the life I lived here was within the Circle. What I felt when I saw it under attack, I— I don’t know if I felt enough.
( Should she have been more horrified? Surely she should feel more about Starkhaven than other places ravaged by wad, and yet.
Herian looks down. )
Since that battle I cannot muster any magic to me or cast the most rudimentary of spells. I am a Knight-Enchanter who left the service of the Chantry and who cannot cast spells, and I— I know I have behaved poorly to many, but you most of all, so to turn to you seemed—
( Nope, no, that’s too emotional and Herian cuts herself off, because neither of them need that. She shakes her head. )
I know not.
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[Some truth on the table is a start.]
Fist of all, you get to call any place home you feel like. There's no must have this much claim box to check off. But if that's wasn't the reason, it'll help you more to know what's actually driving you. I'm not ... in my world, we have people who help with working that sort of thing out, and I don't have the training for it, but being honest with me. With yourself. That's important.
[She considers Herian a moment, then says quieter:]
I don't think I've heard of mages losing their magic short of Tranquility before. Is that a thing that happens? Stress or injury or ...?